


Standing Up

by Orianne (morganya)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-04-01
Updated: 2000-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/Orianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epic story of love, betrayal, and standup comedy. Yes, it's a Mary Sue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing Up

The apartment looks bare. I am sitting on the floor wrapping china plates in paper and putting them into boxes. The fan sits in the corner, but all it's doing is blowing the hot air around.

I say, “Hey, Rachel? Did you ever find my little hedgehog?”

She yells from the kitchen, “Which one?”

“The little glass one that I kept on the mantle.”

“Um...I remember seeing it, but I may have packed it accidentally.”

“Oh. Well, if you ever find it, can you tell me?”

“Okay.”

“When will the guys get back?”

“They've got a lot of boxes to move.”

Rachel's moving into her boyfriend's house on La Cresta. She called me last week and asked me and Jim, my boyfriend, to help her and Greg move. I didn't really want to; I had other things to do, but for the sake of old times and Jim's being friends with Greg, I said we would.

Jimmy and Greg have been crating Rachel's boxes back and forth from the apartment on West First Street, where Rachel and I used to live, to La Cresta. Rachel and I have been stuffing all of her accumulated junk into boxes for three hours. I am in desperate need of a cigarette.

“Maggie, do you have enough boxes?”

“I think so.”

She comes out and drops a bunch of flat cardboard boxes in front of me.

“Rach, I said I had enough.”

“You can never have enough.” She goes back into the kitchen. I keep wrapping things. There is sweat forming on the small of my back and it itches.

I hear thumping up the stairs and look up. Jim appears in the door and waves at me.

“Hey. Where's Greg?”

“Trying to park the car. How's everything here?”

“Almost done, I think.”

“I've still got dishes and stuff,” Rachel says. “Nothing's really been completely put away, though.”

_Maybe because I've been doing all the packing_ , I want to say. Jim pats my head. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah.”

Rachel says, “Do you know where everything goes?”

“I have fingers that can point, Rachel. I can tell him.”

She pokes her head out of the kitchen and rolls her eyes at me. “Grouchy.”

“It's hotter than hell in here,” Jim says. His hair is sticking to his face and neck in thick, reddish curls. “Have y'all killed each other yet?” he says to me softly.

“Not yet.” He starts wrapping a plate. I point at the box where it should go. “I don't think she helped out when I moved in with you. As I recall, she skipped out and went to a deli or something.”

“Maggie, honey, you didn't ask her to help.”

“Doesn't matter. She could have at least offered.”

“Are you implying that I wasn't a help?” He grins at me. “That I was so brittle-boned and uncoordinated that I made you carry all your boxes on your head, balancing them delicately as you walked down the stairs?”

“No. Don't make me laugh, I've got to focus.”

The door shuts. Jim looks up and says, “Maggie's just telling me how feeble I am.”

“Well, that's only because you are,” Greg says cheerfully. “It is approximately ten thousand degrees Celsius out there.”

“Greg,” Rachel says, “can you leave the door open? So we won't have to open it again when we leave?”

Greg opens the door and heads into the kitchen. I make myself look after him. He has his hands resting on her shoulders, smiling. She starts to turn away. He catches her, turns her around, says something too low for me to catch. She laughs. I feel sick.

“You okay?” Jim says.

“Yeah.” I wrap up another plate. “You know, I think that's the end of it.”

“Really?” Greg and Rachel say in unison, poking their heads out.

“I think so.” I tape up the box. Jim falls back on his heels, sighing.

“I'll bring the stuff down,” Greg says.

“Uh...” Rachel says. “Some of those things are pretty fragile.”

Greg sighs tolerantly. She says, “I'll do it. I don't mind. Could someone get the car door for me?”

“I will.” Jim stands up stiffly. “Greg, where'd you park the car?”

“A block or so down. Take a right when you get out the door.” Greg tosses his car keys to Jim. Rachel picks up the box and heads out, Jim following.

My leg is asleep and I have no idea what to say to Greg. I stand up and walk around in a big circle, then lean against the wall.

“Maggie, do you have a cigarette?” Greg says.

“Yeah.” I go for my purse and start to open the pack. “Wait, I thought you were quitting.”

“I am. Kind of.”

“Maybe I shouldn't give this to you. Encouraging you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I'm sweaty, I'm disheveled, there's a Giants game on TV that I'm missing, and a cigarette would numb the pain. C'mon.” He moves into what used to be Rachel's and my living room, smiling at me.

I give him the cigarette. “Thank you.” He lights up and moves against the wall, sliding to the floor. I sit down against the other wall.

He says, “So you haven't felt caged in, being here all day?”

“A little. It's okay though.”

“She's stressed out,” he says apologetically. “She always thinks something's going to go wrong.”

“I know.” I light my own cigarette. He smiles faintly at me.

Rachel appears in the doorway and looks at us. She sighs and walks into the kitchen.

“Rachel...” I say. “Come _on_.”

“I didn't say anything,” she says. “I mean, I wish you would have just asked first.”

“You would have said no,” I say.

“We're almost finished, anyway,” Greg says.

“I just meant that...”

“That y'all are awful people,” Jim says cheerily from the doorway. “You're both going to hell because you smoked in the apartment. When it was empty, no less. Horrors. And we will look down on you from heaven and laugh and laugh...” He sits down next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulders.

Greg says, “Well, at least we had some fun while we were at it.” He stubs the cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. “Do you guys want to have dinner after this? Grab some pizza or something?”

“I'd like to take a shower,” Jim says. “But yeah, that sounds okay. Maggie?”

“Sure. What does your girlfriend say?” I look at the kitchen. “Rach, do you want pizza?”

She comes out of the kitchen, biting at her cuticles. “I guess so. Maybe I could just have a salad or something. I haven't been eating that much recently, anyway.”

“You don't want pizza?” Greg looks disappointed. “We could have something else.”

“We could go to that Indian place on Sunset.” Jim says. “Get some curry.”

“Rachel doesn't like spicy food,” I say.

“Whatever you guys decide will be fine. I really don't care.” She walks back into the kitchen. Greg takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes.

“She wants to come. She just doesn't know it yet,” he says in a low voice, maybe to prevent her from hearing.

“You see?” Jim says, smiling. “Once you move in together, the fighting starts.”

“You should know,” I say, poking his side.

“She rips me a new one everyday, Greg. All my old habits? Gone. Forgotten.”

“Those habits fostered a false sense of independence.” I push his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “I didn't want you to grow your spine back.”

“Welcome to my nightmare.” Jim grins. “We do want to go out to dinner, though. If she doesn't want to...”

Greg shrugs. “All I have to do is turn on the charm a little. She'll come around. Thanks, you guys. Go home, take a shower. I'll call you there.”

“We can arrange something later,” I say. “When you guys are more settled in.”

Greg shakes his head. “It'll be okay.”

Jim stands. “Good luck with that, man.”

“Thanks again. For helping us.” He follows us to the door.

“No problem,” Jim says.

“Bye, Rachel,” I yell in the general direction of the kitchen.

A hand appears and waves at us.

Back at home, I stand in the bathroom combing my wet hair. Jim says, “I feel like I have arthritis in every joint.”

“No wonder. All that carrying.” I go out and sit next to him on the bed. He pats my leg absently.

Jim and I met two years ago at a shitty club called Laugh. It was meant to be an alternative comedy/restaurant thing, and the owner was an asshole. I was working in the kitchen as a cook, and Jim had the Thursday midnight spot. Jim would come off stage thirsty and starving to death, but the owner had a policy that the comics couldn't eat anything from the kitchen. So poor Jim would have to survive on going to Taco Bell at two am.

I'd had a crush on Jim for a while before he really noticed me. It took two weeks of hearing Jim say, “If I don't get some decent food soon, someone's going to have to die,” before I got up enough nerve to start sneaking him food. Thursday dinners were always slow; I could easily make up a cheeseburger and hide it away until Jim came off stage. When I first gave the food to Jim, I said, “This was left over, I thought you needed it.”

He said, “Won't you get fired for this?”

“Who's going to know?”

I snuck him meals for a month. By the time the owner found out, Jim had a better gig at Largo, and I was going to start up my own catering business. And we were already together.

Jim picks a stray thread off of my skirt. “Do you really want to eat dinner with them?” he says. “If he manages to convince her?”

“I think so.”

“It's nice to see Greg,” Jim says. The phone rings; he picks it up.

Greg used to swing by Laugh sometimes and do a set when I worked there. Rachel was a fan of his before they got together. I used to sneak her into the club from the side entrance so she could watch Greg perform, since she was going to school and the ticket prices at Laugh were outrageous. She brought Greg a CD one time, they started talking, and now they're moving in together. And I'm jealous.

Jim says into the phone, “Hello? Oh, hey. What's the end result? Yeah, I know where that is. Meet you there.” He hangs up. “We're going to the Cheesecake Factory.”

“Calories up the wazoo. Good choice on Rachel's part, though.”

He tugs at the hair at his temples. “More complicated than it needed to be.”

When we get to the restaurant, Greg and Rachel are waiting outside, Rachel smiling at me. Greg stands behind her.

There are two young-looking girls standing a little ways away, walking back and forth, whispering and giggling. They both wear basically the same thing: tank tops and shorts. One of them, a tiny, fragile-looking blond, is clutching the arm of her larger, darker friend. They stare at us.

“Glad you could make it,” Rachel says.

“It was no problem. How's the house looking?” Jim says.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Don't ask.”

“It looks fine,” Rachel says. “Shall we go inside?”

“Oh, just try to stop me,” I say. She smiles and starts walking ahead of us. I hear one of the young girls say to the other, “You say something.”

Her friend says, “I'm not going to say something. You say something.” The little blond girl takes a step forward.

She says, in a voice thin with fear, “Um, excuse me? Greg?”

Greg stops and turns around. “Hi.”

The girl clutches her friend's arm even tighter. She says, “Uh, I just wanted to say that I saw you on TV last week and you were great we're both really big fans and we were wondering if you would mind signing something for us if that's okay with you please?” She takes a breath.

“Oh, thank you,” Greg says. “Sure, have you got a pen?”

She hands him a pen and a piece of paper. He says, “What's your name?”

“Alissa.”

“Elissa?”

“Alissa. With an A. And this is Mona.” She gestures to her friend.

I turn away and look at Rachel. She is leaning against the wall of The Factory, her arms crossed. I expect her to be scowling at the tiny girl, Alissa, who is staring at Greg with such adoration that it embarrasses me. But she is watching her with a tiny smile, almost nodding at her. Her eyes flick from Alissa to Greg and the nod deepens. To me she looks uncomfortably like my cat used to look when he was trying to catch a squirrel.

Greg finishes signing the girls' autographs. The dark girl, Mona, says, “Are you going to be on TV again soon?”

“Yeah. I'm gonna be hosting Late Friday next month, and I'm going to be on Craig Kilborn...sometime this month, I think. Plus the usual Whose Line stuff.”

“Well, we'll look for you,” Mona says. Alissa looks at the ground, giggling.

“Oh, great. Um, I've got to go to dinner now, you guys, but I appreciate you saying hi.”

“Thank you, Greg,” they chorus.

“Thanks, you guys.” Greg smiles and turns away, walking towards the Factory. Rachel hooks her arm with his, possessively. Jim checks to see that the girls are out of earshot and says, “Ooooh, can I get your autograph too?”

“Shut up,” Greg says, looking at the ground.

We go inside. “Someone came up to us in the supermarket the other day,” Rachel says, still smiling that smile. “They had their camera and everything.”

“Greg's moving up in the world,” I say.

“Mr. Megastar,” Jim says.

Greg shakes his head. He says to the maitre d', “Four, please.”

When they seat us Rachel says, “Pretty soon it's going to get so bad we won't be able to leave the house.” She doesn't sound that disturbed at the possibility. Greg takes a drink of water.

Jim's eyes flick from Rachel to Greg. He says, “I'm just glad I don't have to emcee much anymore.”

Greg looks up, relieved. “Oh, Jesus, I hated emceeing. _No one_ pays attention to the emcee.”

“I had this drunk group in the front a couple of months ago at the Knitting Factory; they talked about where they parked their cars all through the intros, and then they're perfectly behaved when the opener and the headliner do their stuff. It was horrible.”

“Luckily you don't have to do it much anymore,” I say.

“Opening up's about fifty times better. You don't have to talk about where the drunks can validate their cars.” Jim shrugs. “Amanda's trying to get me more auditions and stuff.”

Rachel says, “You know what you should do? Tell her to get in touch with Comedy Central.” She turns to Greg. “They gave you a special, didn't they?”

Greg looks at her. She looks away.

“If I were to get a special,” Jim says dryly, “they'd show it at three am. On Wednesday. Big media blitz.”

“You're doing all right for yourself, Jim.” Greg says. He leans back in his chair, his voice taking on a campy inflection. “I hear these things. It's nutty.” The waiter comes by and takes our order. Greg says, “We should do a gig together sometime.”

“Yeah!” Jim grins. “How do we set that up? Should I talk to Amanda?”

“I'll tell Melanie to call her. We've got to be in the same place one of these days.”

I look at Rachel. She is leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed, looking at something over our heads.

“Appetizers,” I say, seeing the waiter approach.

“So do you think you can find some recipe to use here?” Rachel says to me.

“Maybe. I steal from everywhere.”

Greg looks up at me, smiling a little. “You probably make them better.”

“Nah.”

“You have to be unscrupulous to be a genius, Maggie.”

I see Jim's eyes flick from Greg to me, then back at his plate. I say, “Well, you should know that, Greg.”

Leaving the restaurant, Jim has his hands shoved in his pockets. I get into the car and say, “That turned out all right, didn't it? Greg's really so easy to talk to. I was amazed how nice he was to those two girls. I don't know if I could have handled it like that.”

“Oh, yeah. It's great. It's always great seeing how much everyone loves Greg.”

“What's the matter with you? It was a nice night out. What's the big deal?”

“Nothing. Don't let me stop you talking about how great he fucking is.” He puts the key in the ignition and turns it. The car just sputters. He turns the key again; same noise. He punches the side of the steering wheel, hard.

I draw back, my shoulder against the window. He manages to get the car started and flicks on the radio. I stare out of the window and count the streetlights silently. A couple of times I hear him beginning to say something, then cutting himself off.

We pull up to the house. He stops the car and just sits in the driver's seat. His shoulders have slumped. I say, “Could I have the keys, please?”

He turns and hands them to me. His eyes are sad in the dim light. I think he's going to say something, but he just shakes his head.

I get out of the car, go over to his side and open the door. “Jim?”

He looks up at me. He says softly, “It must be nice. . .having someone think you're wonderful all the time.” I put my hands on his shoulders.

That night I dream that I am trapped in a hotel. They won't let me leave until I pay my bill. I search my pockets for money but all I can find is scraps of sweaty green paper. I pace around the fountain in the middle of the lobby, trying to put the scraps back together.

If I see another commercial where children screw their faces up and pout on television, I'm going to screech. Jim's four thousand miles away. It was my twenty-fifth birthday yesterday. I hate myself and my life. The phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” There's noise in the background; the voice is hoarse and slightly sheepish.

“Jimmy? How are you? How's New York?”

“Pretty good. It's cold. Um...was it your birthday today?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay. It couldn't be helped. Anyway, you're a guy. I expected this.” I twirl the phone cord around my finger. “I miss you. I love you.”

“I love you. I miss you too.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Next Friday. We're going to Rhode Island tomorrow. Providence, I think.”

“Oh. Well, have fun in Providence, okay?”

“Sure. Look, when I get back we'll have a big dinner. I'll sweep you off your feet. To make up for missing your birthday.”

“It might be too late.” There is a clipped, snappish quality to my voice that I hate.

Another pause. “Look, there's a line forming behind me. I've got to go. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I hang up. If I could burrow under the couch with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bottle of tequila, I would.

I decide to call Rachel and cry on her shoulder for a while. If she's not out doing something gloriously romantic with Greg.

I pick up the phone and dial their number. “Hello?” It's Greg.

“Hi, Greg, it's Maggie. Is Rachel there?”

A small, slightly harsh laugh on the other end. “No. She's in Seattle. I have the number somewhere if you want to reach her...”

I'm startled. “Seattle? No, don't get the number, I just wanted to chat for a bit. Why's she in Seattle?”

“Newspaper conference. She left yesterday morning.”

“Wow. So you're by yourself tonight, too?”

“It looks like it. Well, the cat's here.” He pauses a second. “Jim's working?”

“Yeah. In New York. Fun to be us, huh?”

“Hey, Maggie? You doing anything tonight?”

“Obviously not. My main plan was to call Rachel and whine.”

“Well. I could use some company myself, do you want to come over here? Watch a movie or something?”

I consider it. Greg and Rachel have a comfortable couch with a big screen TV. However, there's the whole question of being alone with Greg. I say, “Well...”

“I'm going crazy here.” I think he means to sound lighter than he actually does.

I say, “Well, as long as I'm your only link to sanity. I'll be over in a little bit.”

As soon as I hang up I want to kick myself. Watching a movie with my friend's boyfriend, whom I have a crush on, sounds like an absolutely horrific plan when I start thinking about it. But the fact is that if I stick around here for too much longer, I'll wind up feeling worse.

I don't bother to change my clothes or put on makeup, just keep on my jeans and sweatshirt. I get into my car and start driving over to their place. I wonder if I should stop somewhere and pick up a cake or something, but then I think that might make the occasion seem more special than it is.

Greg meets me at the door, dressed casually for him, in a dark green shirt and black pants. I smile.

He smiles back. “Hi. Thank God you're here.”

The living room is my favorite part of their house, with two picture windows and pale yellow paint. Greg's huge CD collection lines one of the walls. Some of the CDs are on the floor, which surprises me; Greg's a horrible neat freak. I say, “What's up with those?” pointing to them.

He shrugs. “Oh. I decided to reorganize them. The ones on the floor are the uncatagetorizable ones. I'm thinking of getting rid of them. She doesn't care for them that much, but I don't want to let them go.”

“Ah.” I go to investigate the CDs. George Carlin recorded standup, Enigma, some band with a German name.

“Would you like something, some food?”

“Um...” I pick up one of the CDs, the German one, and examine it. I casually look back at him. “You didn't cook it, did you?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “No. It's just bread and cheese right now. I forgot to go shopping.”

“That sounds okay.” Greg is not the best cook in the entire world. Jim and I laughed for a week after the time we invited him, Rachel, and several other people to Thanksgiving dinner at our place and Greg, in a spasm of goodwill, volunteered to make the pies. Rachel said to Greg, “Honey, are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” he said, faintly annoyed that we didn't trust him. After Jim finished talking to Greg on the phone, he turned to me and said, “Better make some backup desserts just in case.”

It was lucky I did, because when Greg brought over his _one_ pie, which was a Sara Lee Heat and Serve thing, it looked like it had been in a horrible disfiguring accident. It was soggy and only half-cooked, and one side had fallen over the other, oozing apple goo all over. It turned out Greg had gotten impatient and tried to take the pies out of the oven too soon. The first pie wound up falling on the floor because Greg had forgotten to put on oven mitts and dropped it. The other pie got stuck to the tin and wound up looking like a mutant.

Jimmy almost laughed himself into a coma.

From the kitchen, Greg calls, “Okay. We've got movies on tape or there's movies on television. Which do you prefer?”

I look in the hutch under the television that holds the movies. “You've probably seen all of these a million times before.”

He appears in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, licking Brie off of his fingers. “You're probably right.” He looks at me for a moment. I see something approaching sadness cross his face. It occurs to me that he's probably sat on this couch with Rachel thousands of times before, watching these movies.

I say, “I think I'll see what's on television.”

“Good idea.” He goes back into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Whatever you have is fine.”

“Wine goes well with cheese, doesn't it?” He knows perfectly well it does.

“Yeah, that's good.”

“Oh. We don't have any wine, though.”

“Well, what do you have?”

“I really should have gone shopping today.”

“Greg.”

“All I have besides the bread and the cheese is some tequila my buddy brought us from Mexico. Oh, and water.”

“I like tequila.”

“Okay.” He brings out a plate of bread and cheese, and the bottle, then goes back for glasses. “What's on the television agenda tonight?”

I scan the TV Guide. “Um. Some made for television thing called Broken Vow.”

“Skip it.”

“Dances with Wolves?”

“The day I voluntarily watch a Kevin Costner movie is the day they kill me.”

I run down the choices. After either he or I say no to most of them, we decide on Titanic, which neither of us have seen.

“We're hip and post-modern.” Greg says. “We can watch it ironically.”

He is standing in front of me, still holding the shot glasses. I look up at him. He drops his gaze.

It still surprises me when Greg turns shy. It comes at odd times. I grab some bread and cheese and say, “Well, it's on in five minutes.”

The movie sucks. It really sucks. It sucks beyond all definition of sucking. And it's also weird to watch two people kissing and breathlessly declaring love for each other when your only companion is your friend's boyfriend. Somewhere around the first hour, we start to hit the tequila, partly to get past the weirdness, and partly because the movie just sucks so much.

When the old woman in the movie murmurs, “A woman's heart is like an ocean,” Greg snarls, “Oh, for fuck's sake!” and I burst out laughing. And can't stop. We watch the rest of the movie laughing hysterically, choking.

When the movie ends, we've gone through most of the tequila. Greg is smoking a cigarette and I am trying to make my head stop spinning. He looks at me and says, “That. Was. Awful.”

“Don't talk about it. I'm trying to forget this ever happened.”

He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out. I say, “You look good.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “I look drunk and old.”

“No, you don't. I like your shoes.”

He examines them. “The shoes are kind of nice.”

“What are they, Italian?”

“Gucci, I think.”

“They're very sexy.” Well, that was a dumb thing to say.

“Please.” He rubs at his eyes.

“I think maybe we just made a bad choice watching Titanic, seeing as how, you know...”

“We're both alone and bereft?”

“I guess so. I just wanted to say, you thanks...I mean, thank you for inviting me over. I was feeling sorry for myself.”

“Well, I was kind of wanting someone to come over anyway. I thought the walls were closing in. I'm glad it was you who came to see me and not some...overzealous Avon lady.”

“So it was down to a choice between me and an Avon lady?”

“Well, it would have depended on who called first.” He lights another cigarette. After a moment he points at me. “You,” he says, “don't hang out with me.”

“What do you mean? I'm hanging out with you now.”

“I mean in general. I'd decided you didn't like me or something.”

“Come on, Greg,” I say. “Everybody likes you. _Everyone_ thinks you're great.”

He shakes his head. I say, “Everyone thinks you're great. I think you're great.”

“Now you're patronizing me.”

I punch him in the shoulder. “No, you're just weaseling compliments out of me.”

He gives me a light tap in return. “Patron.”

“Weasel.” I jab him in the side. He laughs and chokes on his cigarette; he flushes and sits forward, covering his mouth. Finally he takes a deep breath and puts his head in his hands. He says, faintly, looking green, “I think I've had enough to drink.”

“You okay?”

After a minute his color comes back and he lifts his head. “Had a bit of a turn there. I'm okay now.” He grins at me.

“Sure?”

He nods and leans back against the couch. “Thanks for coming over.”

“I wanted to. Greg,” I say, “Greg, I wasn't being patronizing. I really do think you're great.”

“So why don't you come around?” He looks at me directly. “I like hanging out with you. I like talking about...stuff...with you.”

“I don't come over,” I say, “I don't come over...because I think you're great.”

He gives me a faint, puzzled smile. I say, “I think Rachel is really lucky.”

He rubs at a speck of something on his lip. I lean forward, my hand on the couch cushion, almost touching him but not quite. “You know I mean?” He looks up.

“Oh, honey,” he says. “Honey, I'm sorry.” He gives me a hug. He smells of tobacco and cologne. I don't let go. Neither does he.

I don't know who kisses who first.

Some time later I pass out in the crook of his arm, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. My clothes are on the floor.

When I wake up, my head is throbbing and my mouth tastes like the inside of a sewer. I feel someone's arm curled around me. I lift my head slowly.

Greg.

I can't do anything but just lie there, feeling his warm, soft hand on my skin. He wheezes slightly in his sleep. After a second his eyes open and he looks at me painfully, his eyes bloodshot, smiling, and then he reaches for his glasses and freezes.

We stare at each other for a minute. And then I jump up and grab my clothes and run for the door, just as he is grabbing his glasses and jumping off the couch. I put my sweatshirt on inside-out and slam the door as I run to my car.

After I drive for ten minutes I have to pull over to the side of the road and throw up.

I go home. I take a bath and swallow some aspirin. I stand in the bathroom for a long time, looking in the mirror.

When I go to pick Jim up at the airport on Friday, he brings me a soft, butter-colored stuffed dog.

******

I have gone without speaking to Greg for a week. Lying in Jim's arms, I can still feel the imprint of his hands on my body. I can still taste his skin on my tongue. I hear his voice in my head sometimes, curling around my brain. Jim says, “We should go have dinner with Greg and Rachel one of these days.”

I say, “That'd be nice...”

He shrugs. “I'm probably going to call him next week sometime.”

“Okay,” I say, my heart pounding.

Jim talks to Rachel. She asks us to come over on Saturday. Greg's not working then, neither is Jim, and neither am I. I can't offer Jim an excuse.

Driving over to their house, Jim takes one hand off the wheel and rests it on my shoulder silently. I haven't said anything about what happened with Greg and me. I thought about it but I couldn't figure out how to say, “Honey, I slept with your friend.” The more time that passes, the more ridiculous telling him seems to me.

I wonder if Greg's said anything to Rachel. Maybe they have one of those relationships where you can say, “Oh, ha ha, guess what I did the other night,” and nothing would happen. I doubt it.

Walking up to their front door, I stop and pick at the hem of my shirt. Jim looks at me and says, “What're you doing?”

“I think I spilled something on this.”

He looks at the shirt and shakes his head. “I don't see anything.”

I ring the doorbell and Rachel opens it. We hug and then Jim hugs her. I'm not going to be able to eat dinner.

Rachel is wearing a dark blue dress with white dots on it. It makes her look older than she really is. “We ordered out. It's probably not up to your standards, your being the chef and all...”

“I will try to quell my inner critic.”

“Next time, you can make dinner,” she says and laughs. Next time? “Greg's getting the food ready now.”

Greg pokes his head around the kitchen door and waves at us, then disappears again. Rachel calls, “Is it about ready?”

“Um,” he says. “Yeah. Help yourselves.”

Jim goes into the kitchen. I hear him say something to Greg, and Greg's laugh. Rachel says to me, “It's noodles with duck. That Thai place I told you about?”

“I like noodles.” I go into the kitchen. The plates are piled high with steaming yellow noodles, delicate smell of roasted duck. Greg has his head tilted to hear Jim better, his hand resting on Jim's elbow. He glances over at me and says, “Hey.”

“Hey.” I grab a plate.

We eat in the living room, resting the plates on the coffee table. Greg is across from me, Jim and Rachel across from each other. Rachel is talking about this man she interviewed a few weeks ago. I don't catch what he did for a living.

“He kept his house so cold. You could see your breath.”

Greg glances at me across the table. He's twirling the noodles around his chopsticks, one yellow strand, flecked with peanuts, trailing across the plate. I have my plate on my knees. I can feel the heat sinking in through my skirt.

“Don't you like it?” Rachel says to me.

“You know,” I say. “I taste food from five in the morning until like eleven at night. I'm burnt out.”

“She's killing herself,” Jim says.

“I'm not killing myself.“

“They don't appreciate you there,” he says, only half-joking.

“I'm their boss, of course they don't.”

“I'd like to be my own boss,” Rachel says. Greg shifts his weight, interlacing his fingers tightly. She looks at him. “You practically have nicotine written on your forehead. Do you want to...”

“Yeah,” Greg says gratefully. When Rachel's around, Greg's not allowed to smoke in the house. He says, “Is everyone about done?” He collects the plates.

“I'll join you for that cigarette, if I may,” I say.

He looks up quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

I go outside, into their tiny square of backyard, and stare into the hills, the cigarette smoke wrapping around my fingers. I hear him coming up behind me.

He says, “Did you say anything?”

I look up at him. “No. There didn't seem to be a point.”

He lights a cigarette. “I'll never look at Titanic the same way again.”

“Greg,” I say, “Greg, I never meant for this to happen. I swear to God.” But I'm lying, I realize, even as I speak. I did want it to happen. And I still do.

“It's not like it meant anything,” he says. “I mean, I'm sorry, but...”

“No, it wasn't important at all,” I say. “I still feel the same way...”

“Maybe that's a bad thing.”

“I don't want to stop being friends,” I say.

He looks at me. “We're adults.”

“Yeah.”

“We don't have to, you know, elope.”

“No, we don't.”

“We should talk about this some more.”

“Yeah. Not here, though.” I glance behind me. I can see Jimmy's shadow moving inside.

He frowns. “I'm going away again, I got this gig up in Toronto. I'll be back in a week or something. I can call you then.”

“Or you can just drop by the kitchen,” I say. “I'm there most every day. You can have a free lunch.”

He chuckles. “No such thing as a free lunch.”

“That joke is older than you are.”

“I know, but it seemed particularly apt here.”

I crush my cigarette out and go back inside. The coffee is whirring in their machine.

On the way home, Jim says, “I never like going over to their house.”

“I thought you liked them,“ I say. I lick my lips a few times.

“I do. But...“ He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. “There are about ten thousand unspoken rules in there. They're an odd couple. Greg hates rules.”

“Well, he might be mellowing out,” I say. I remember Greg, his hand twisted around my hair, yanking my head back, his teeth nipping at my throat. “You can't be a hellraiser forever, it's tiring.”

“Greg,” he says, “is the type of person who will purposely walk on the grass if there's a sign saying, 'Don't walk on grass.' He'd have a bloody picnic on the grounds just for spite. And she's...I like her, but she's almost conservative.”

Rachel comes from a small town in West Virginia. Her family is composed of hard-core evangelical Christians. Before she moved to LA, Rachel had never even met a Jewish person. “Why do you suppose they ended up together?”

“Perversity. On his part, mainly,” Jim says. “Just because it was unexpected.” He smiles and shakes his head. “Weirdo.”

At home, he traces his finger over the curve of my hip. “One day, we can both have a bunch of rules to abide by, just like an old married couple. No smoking in the house. No card games. Always mow the lawn on Sunday.”

“Who has a lawn in this city?”

“A cactus plant then.” He laughs, a quick exhalation of breath against my skin. “We'll mow the cactus plant on Sundays.”

“I don't like that so much.”

He moves his hand up to the underside of my breast. “What we'll do, when we're older, is sit outside in rocking chairs with shotguns, threatening the neighborhood children.”

“Not likely,” I say. I flick a piece of hair out of my mouth. “What we can do is become one of those old showbiz couples, with lots of plastic surgery and a cigar in each hand. And we'll live out in the Hills.”

“And we'll have dogs.”

“Dogs. Yes.”

He falls asleep with his head on my chest. In three days, he'll be at the gig in Texas, then the one in Chicago. I won't see him again for two weeks.

That night I dream that I am sitting in a bar. Jimmy is sitting beside me with his head touching the countertop. I say, “She really does.” He looks up and says, “There's a lot of water here.”

******

The day before Jim leaves, I get a call from Rachel on my cell phone, just as I am walking towards the door. Jim is still asleep. She says, “So what's going on?”

“I'm just going to work. What's going on with you?”

“I'm bored,” she says. “Greg left yesterday.”

“That's too bad. You want to get together with me and we'll see a movie?” I open the door.

“There's nothing I want to see.”

“There's a Chaplin retrospective at the Indigo. We could go see that.”

“I don't know,” she says. “Greg's more into that stuff.”

“But it's _Chaplin_.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“What?” I go outside, get in my car, and slam the hem of my skirt in the door. I cover the receiver and curse, then pull the hem out of the door.

“I never got Chaplin.”

“Well. It's a little dated now, but you know.”

“Greg can talk about movies for hours,” she says dully. “I never know what to say.”

“So I take it the movies are out.”

“I guess.” She sighs. “I've got a lot of work to do, anyway.”

I say, “Hang on a second.” I put down the phone, check the traffic, and whack my head gently against the steering wheel. Jesus _Christ_.

I pick up the phone again. “So when's Greg getting back?”

“Next week sometime.”

“Jimmy's going to Texas.”

“I know.” I wait. Nothing else seems to be forthcoming from her.

“Well, I guess you'll be pretty glad to see Greg when he gets back,” I say.

“I think so. I might be working the night he gets home.”

“I've got to go,” I say. “Just pulled into work. Talk to you later, okay?” I actually have a twenty minute drive in front of me, but she doesn't know that.

“Sure.”

I think the only reason Rachel and I became friends in the first place was because we were living together and we both liked stand-up comedy. I was so glad to have something in common with her that I tried to ignore all the other stuff about her. When I started working at Laugh and met Jim, I went home and said to her, “My God, I just met this gorgeous guy at work.”

She said, “Oh.” And went back to watching television.

Rachel once asked me, “What's the worst thing you ever did?” And I couldn't tell her. Because the worst thing she ever did was stay out two hours past curfew, sitting in a coffee shop by herself, staring into her cup. And I knew if I ever told her any of the stuff I'd done, like the time when I was sixteen where I snuck out of the house to go my friend Matt's New Year's party and wound up having sex on the stairs with some Brazilian guy I'd just met ten minutes ago, she'd think I was even more of a sinner, and whatever peace I had would be shattered.

I don't know what Greg's doing with her.

*****

I get an order for a dinner party. Cheese borekas and artichoke heart-tomato salad. I am blending the marinade, to test out the recipe, when my cell phone rings.

“It's me. It's Greg.”

“Hi!” I have a knife in my hand. I am bearing down hard on the raw hearts; pale yellowish juice seeps from the layers. “Where are you?”

“I'm on Lankershim.”

“Wow, you're close. When did you get home?”

“Just like two hours ago. How are you?”

“I'm okay. How was Toronto? Have you been home?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you see Rachel?”

“No, she's working tonight. I'll see her later. Maybe later this evening, if I'm still awake.”

“So you're just driving around?”

“It looks like it. Are you busy?”

“Um.” I look at the artichokes. “I'm kind of cooking something now...”

“Okay.”

“Ah! Greg, Greg, Greg. Don't hang up. We need to talk anyway.”

“Sure?”

“Come on over here and help me.”

When I open the door for him, he is threading the hem of his shirt between his fingers. He smiles groggily at me.

“Greg, you look jetlagged.”

“I sort of am. I'm getting too old for this shit.”

“You'd miss it if it was gone.” I usher him in. “Come and talk to me while I chop stuff.”

“What are you making?”

“This salad thing and these cheese things.”

“No meat?”

“The lady didn't want meat.” I start brushing butter onto the filo dough.

“I like dead flesh.”

“You and Jimmy both.”

For a moment he glances around the kitchen, tilting his head to listen to something. “Is Jim still in Texas?”

“Um. No. He's in Chicago this week.”

“You miss him?” He rubs his hands together, as if brushing something off.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I do. But you get used to people going off after a while.”

He rubs at his eye with his pinky finger. “It's not really fair on you guys.”

“It's your job,” I say. “We wouldn't be here if we didn't know what to expect from it. Do you want to help me? I've been buttering and rolling dough for so long I think I'm losing my mind.”

“Maggie, I can't really, um, _cook_...”

“You don't need to know how to cook for this. All you have to do is butter the dough and fold it up, like a little flag.” I show him, taking the thin, papery filo and folding it over, covering the cheese filling.

“Okay.” He washes his hands quickly in the sink, steps over. I turn around to put one of the pans in the oven and when I turn around the dough is rolled up into a cylinder. The filling peeks out through the holes.

“Good Christ, man. What did you do?”

He looks at the dough. “Uh, rolled it up?”

“Greg, you are not tactile at _all_ ,” I say. “Here.”

I step in front of him, taking his wrists. He tenses. “I'm just showing you what to do.” I say. “You want to butter the dough with the brush, put the filling on it, and then fold it over.” His hands are ice cold. I guide him over the food.

When the dough looks halfway to a triangle I drop his hands and turn around to face him. “That wasn't so bad.”

He tilts my chin up and kisses me on the mouth. I grasp his shoulder. The light stubble on his face scratches at my cheek. He takes a step back.

My heart is pounding so hard it's almost painful. Because it was so easy to do.

“I can't...” I say. “I've got to get the rest of this stuff ready.” But at the same time I have his hands caught in mine, rubbing them to warm them up. He sighs softly, his forehead touching mine.

“I've got to get going.“ He pulls his hands away.

“Are you going to be home for a bit?”

“About two weeks.”

“I'll see you before you go away again? If you get time?”

“Yeah.”

I follow him to the door. “Try to get some sleep.”

He turns around. “We forgot to talk.” Before I can say anything he leans down and kisses me again, then walks back to his car.

******

“How many CDs do you have?” Greg says.

“I don't know. Altogether, maybe seventy five.” He is kneeling in the living room, examining our collection; I am perched on top of the sofa, holding a can of Budweiser, my bare feet on the cushions.

“All yours?” He glances back at me.

“Most of them. The classic rock CDs, those are his.”

“What you need,” he says, “is some really good ambient music. Groove Armada or Air, something like that.”

“I never got into the whole ambient music thing. I always wound up tuning it out.”

“You see, that's where the pleasure is. You forget about it, then you hear something really good and it brings you back to reality for a minute. You need to get something like The Sundays that's more poppy, that'll ease you into it. Stay away from Enya and Pure Moods and crap like that. I'll tell you where to find the good stuff.”

“The Sundays is girly music. My roommate in college used to play it all the time.”

He turns around, half-smiling at me. “So you didn't enjoy it?”

“Actually, I liked it a lot. I'm just surprised you like girly music.”

“Well, I'm not that macho.” He stops looking at the CDs, and leans back against the couch, tracing the insole of my foot with his finger. It tickles; I stiffen and gasp back a laugh. He grabs my ankle, his head jerking up with concern. “Don't fall off.” He gets off the floor and sits next to my feet on the couch, still holding my ankle.

“How many CDs do you have, anyway?” I put my hand on the top of his head, playing with the thick, curly silk of his hair. He tilts his head back and smiles up at me.

He says, “I tried to count them a little while ago. Then I realized it was a two-day job. I've got a lot stored in my basement. I have about two hundred that I play all the time.”

“Jesus.”

“Rachel says I'm an addict.” When he says her name he lets go of me, leaning forward.

“Well, she's not really into music.”

“No, it's not...really...I don't know. It doesn't interest her that much, I guess.” He stands up and looks back at our CDs.

“Do you want a beer or something?”

“No. Thanks.”

I go into the kitchen and pour the rest of my beer down the sink. “Greg? Why'd you end up with Rachel, anyway?”

He sighs. “Why'd you end up with Jim?”

I suppose I deserve that. “Is lust an answer?”

“No.” He comes into the kitchen, leans against the counter.

“I don't know. Because I care for him. That's the stereotypical answer. Your turn.”

He frowns. “Everything I do, I know how she'll react. I know how she feels about everything. I think I've had enough of not knowing where I stand.” His face clouds over for a second, remembering something. I want to ask what, but I think better of it.

“Do you even have to like her?”

He looks up at me. His eyes are chocolate-colored, far-seeing. “I like _you_.”

“No, you don't.” I walk over to him, put my arms around his neck. “I know the score.”

“The score? We're using sports metaphors now?” He slides his hand under my shirt, traces my stomach. “Maybe I'm trying to fake you out.”

“Maybe.”

He lowers his head onto my shoulder. I press my cheek against his hair.

I am sitting at the table checking orders when the door opens; there is a thump in the hall. Jim rushes in and picks me up from the chair, my legs dangling.

“Hi!” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes but he's smiling.

“Hi,” I say. “You're home early. Why didn't you call me? I would have picked you up.”

“Thought I'd surprise you. I got bumped to an earlier flight. Did you miss me?”

“Of course I missed you. How was the flight? You're pretty, uh...” I look down at my hanging feet. “Energetic.”

“It's superficial; I'm going to crash in about twenty minutes. I brought you a present.”

“You didn't need to bring me a present.”

“It's for me too.” He starts lumbering for the door, still carrying me.

“Crazy man, put me _down_.”

“Nope.” He pauses in the hall, looking down at his duffel bag, then looks back at me. “Hmmm.”

“Down!” I kiss him on the cheek. “My feet are going numb.”

“Aww.” He puts me down and opens the duffel bag, taking out a brown paper bag. “Is it too early for champagne?”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.” He opens the bottle; the cork flies around the room. “Ahhh! Fuck!”

I run for glasses. He sloshes champagne into them. I say, “So I'm stunned. What's going on?”

He grins down at me. “I...” He takes a drink. “Am going to be on television.”

“You're so kidding.”

He shakes his head. “Amanda called me the last night at Zanies. She talked to someone; they want to give me half an hour on Comedy Central. My own special.”

“Oh, my God.” I put my arms around his neck. “I'm so proud of you.”

“I know I should have called when she told me, but I wanted it to be in person. That's okay, isn't it? It's national, Maggie. Maybe I could start playing better clubs; there'd be more money...”

“Jimmy.” I kiss him on the mouth. His eyes are huge and bright.

He grins. “I'm expecting the guy to call me here or Amanda to call me or something like that to tell me what's going on. And then I guess I'll go out to New York. Shit, I need to figure out what bits to do. Do you want to come to New York? Take a week off or something?”

I can't say anything. I stand there grinning at him. He reminds me of a very young boy surrounded by birthday presents. I reach up and push his hair out of his eyes.

He peers down at me. “Am I talking too much?”

I shake my head and poke him in the side. “I'm proud.”

He takes a breath. “So that's what's been going on. What's up with you?"

I start laughing. For no reason at all. He picks me up and swings me around.

“Do you want something to eat?” I say when he puts me down. He shakes his head.

“Okay then.” I start walking into the kitchen. He rubs at his left shoulder, suddenly growing smaller. “Maybe you should go to bed.”

“I don't want to just swing in and then...”

“Yeah, but I don't mind. Go lie down.”

He opens his mouth a few times before saying, “Okay.” He picks up his bag and goes into the bedroom.

I look at the orders for a second, then go check on him. He is curled up on the bed with the bag next to him, his arm flung over it. It is half-unzipped; his clothes, stuffed into it haphazardly, peek out at me. I slide it out from under his arm and put it on the floor. He mumbles something.

I put my hand on his back, feeling the solid weight of him.

I dream that I am driving in the desert. The wheels of the car are soft and formless; sand keeps creeping up through the floor, the grit rubbing against my ankles. I try to stop the car, but the steering wheel locks up and I slide down the honey-colored dunes. The sand goes down my throat; I wake up choking.

*****

I get a phone call from Rachel. “Do you think we should move out of LA?”

“What? How come?”

“I hate it here.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I don't care for it, but it's where the work is. I know Greg's working a lot here. And Jimmy's getting gigs.”

“I just don't know what to do.”

“You've got a job. You've got a house and stuff. Why do you hate it?”

“I just do.”

“Rachel...” I light a cigarette. “Rachel, that doesn't mean anything. Why do you hate it? What can you change?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

I take a long drag. “What's been going on, Rachel?"

“What do you mean?”

“You were so excited about this place before. What's changed?”

“Nothing.”

_I'm sleeping with your boyfriend, you stupid bitch._ “You should figure out exactly what you don't like and why. And then you should change it.”

“I guess so.”

“This place isn't so bad.” I say. “And you've got a lot more than other people.”

“You always know what I should do,” she says.

And you never do it. “No, I don't.”

“I just don't know what to do.”

“Do what you think is right.” I say. “You can't do anything else.”

“I guess.” She's silent a long time.

“You know what?” I say.

“I've got to go. Talk to you later.” She hangs up.

Fuck.

*****

The way I see it, if Jimmy goes to New York, I could swing it so I didn't have to shut down the kitchen for a week, and even then it wouldn't kill me to shut down for a bit. But then there's always the possibility that the week we're gone, I'd get about seven hundred orders and then that'll go down the tubes. Maybe I could find someone to take over for me. Now that I think of it, maybe I should ask Jim to do his routine about street performers, but I think that only goes over well in San Francisco. New Yorkers would probably have no idea what he was talking about.

“Maggie?” Greg says.

“Huh?”

He taps my forehead with his index finger. I haven't heard a word he's said.

“Sorry.” I say. I put my hand on his stomach. The sheets of his bed are warm and rumpled. “What was it?”

He shakes his head, wrapping the strands of my hair around his fingers. I look at the clock. “Fuck, I've got to go.” I stand up, grab my shirt from the chair next to the bed.

“Maggie?”

I turn around. He sits with his back against the headboard, a slightly built, pale-skinned man, looking younger than he really is. I say, “Yeah?”

He lowers his eyes. “Nothing,” he says softly. “Never mind.”

*****

When I walk into the kitchen Jim is talking on the phone, his hand braced against the wall. His shoulder blade juts out, rumpling the fabric of his shirt. His voice is quiet and calm.

“When did they decide?”

I back out of the kitchen, stand in the other room, listening.

“It's a shitty thing to do to someone.” Still quiet. “Okay.” He hangs up, stands very still. His hand stays against the wall. He brings it down, takes a breath. He punches the wall once, quickly, hard. There is a dull, echoing thud of his fist against the wood.

I flinch. He walks into the living room, turns on the television. I walk after him, stop on the doorway. He is sitting on the couch, arm slung over the back, like someone attempting the pose of relaxation. He looks above the television instead of at it, his hand pressed into the back of the couch, making an imprint.

I know I should ask what's wrong, even though I sort of know. I know I shouldn't be scared of him. Except I am. Jim really doesn't get angry, but it scares me when he does. I never know quite what to say when it happens: it's as if he coils around himself, until he's barely there at all but for the anger.

I walk up to the couch, raising my hand to touch his shoulder, but then I think better of it. He doesn't even turn around. I stand in back of him trying to think of something to say, trying to dodge around the wall.

He turns off the television, turns his head to look at me. His eyes are narrow. He stands up and walks into the bedroom silently.

I sit on the couch for twenty minutes, rolling the remote over in my hands. Finally I get up and go after him.

He's lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, but he seems to be actually seeing something there. I say, “Can I sit down?” My voice is thin and quiet.

“Yeah.”

I sit beside him. “What happened?”

“They told me not to come to New York. They're not giving me the spot.”

I knew it, but I still feel a rush of disappointment. “Oh, Christ, Jim. I'm sorry.”

“They fucking lied,” he says. “I don't think they ever were going to do it. It might have just been to placate Amanda.”

I pat his shoulder, feeling my stomach tense as I do it. His muscles are rigid under my hand. He says, “I'm just not successful enough for them to put me on. I haven't had my own shitty sitcom.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again. It's all I can think of.

“And what pisses me off is that I should have thought of all this sooner. Instead of believing it was going to happen. I should have...I should have known better.” His body starts to relax, the rigid quality draining out of him.

“You didn't have any reason not to believe it was going to happen.” I say. “It'll happen eventually, just not now.”

He sits up, brushing my hand off his shoulder. “It doesn't matter now. What matters is...” For a moment he struggles to find something to do with his hands. Finally he wraps his arms around his knees, like a kid. “That it just fucking...”

“Jimmy.” I say. “It's okay.” I put my arms around him.

“We're gonna have to live in this fucking house forever,” he says, his voice gone lopsided. “I'm never gonna...”

“No, shh, slow down for a minute.” I can feel him withdrawing, almost starting to shrink. “It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be fine.”

He takes a deep breath. “Could you stay here? Maybe for just a couple of minutes?”

“Yeah.” I push his hair back from his forehead. “I can stay as long as you want me to.” And then I just sit there, his eyes pressed into the crook of my arm.

I know he'll be more optimistic in a few hours; he'll shrug his shoulders and say, “Ah, fame escapes my clutches yet again,” and then start calling Amanda to bug her for more auditions. He'll call club managers, make another showcase tape. But right now, holding him, he feels so small. If I let go, he would disappear.

*****

“You know I'm doing the gig in April with Jim,” Greg says, pulling on his shoes.

I look up. “Is that so?”

These days we've been bringing up their names more and more often. Just as a way to needle each other. If he wants to bring Jim up, I don't see why I can't bring Rachel up.

“Maybe you'll come. Just to show support.”

“I suppose so. I guess Rachel might be working that night, so you'll need someone familiar in the audience.”

He glances up, his mouth thin. Lately I've been catching him looking at me with something that feels almost like hate, an icy appraisal of myself and my faults. I turn my head away. Maybe I look at him the same way sometimes.

I say, “Or was that uncalled for?”

He rests his elbows on his knees. “Did you ever see The Piano?”

“Jane Campion? Everyone did.”

“I've been thinking of watching it again.”

It isn't until I get into my car that I think of the scene: Harvey Keitel saying to Holly Hunter, _This is making you a whore and me wretched_.

When I get home Jim is sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. Fuck. He was meant to be talking to some club owner this afternoon. I say, “Hey. I didn't expect you to be home so soon.”

He looks up. “And I didn't expect you to be out.”

“Had some errands. Wanted to check up on the drones.” I go into the kitchen. “Do you want to see a movie or something tonight?”

He follows me, watches me rummage in the cupboards. “I guess I figured you had something to do.”

“Why don't we have any food in this house?” I ask the cupboards. “Who keeps forgetting to go shopping?” I brush past him to get into the living room.

“Maggie?”

I turn around. He is leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded. He says, “Are you doing anything on the third of April?”

“What?”

“The gig at the Island.”

“That's the one with Greg, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Huh. I'm not sure. I might have to check.”

“I can't remember the last time you went to one of my gigs.”

“Jimmy, I don't know...”

“Please.”

I look up at him. He says again, more quietly, “Please.”

“I think I might be able to make it.” And he grins at me.

That night I dream that my stomach is swelling, filling with some heavy fluid. Jim stands against a red wall, hands raised above his head. I take off my shirt and say, “It's turning black.”

*****

I have to race to get to the Island on time. The cleanup after the barbecue took longer than I'd wanted it to, and I still smell of sauce and pork. When I get to the club, Jimmy is standing by the bar, holding a bottle of water. He waves at me.

“Am I late?”

“No, they're just about to call us in. I'm killing time.” He puts his arm around me.

“Is Greg around?”

“He's right there.” Jim waves a hand in the air. Greg, in a black suit, holding a beer, walking towards the entrance. Greg turns, smiles, and then sees me. Jim motions him over.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn't expect to see you here tonight.”

“You know. It was something to do.”

Jim says, “I practically had to drag her.” He brushes my hair back from my shoulders. “Why do you smell like ribs?”

“I had the lunch thing to do. Is it bad?”

“No, you just smell down-home. It's pleasant.”

Greg shifts his feet. He runs his index finger over the lip of the beer bottle. “Is Rachel here?” I say, hating myself.

He looks at me sideways. “No.” He takes a drink. “Lucky you showed up here, though, isn't it? To give some moral support.”

“You okay?” Jim says to him.

Greg shrugs. “I'm in pre-show mode. I'm trying to find a quiet spot to pace in.”

“You're not likely to find one here,” I say.

“I guess not.”

Jim looks from Greg to me and back again. “I've got to get inside. You two going to be all right?”

“Yeah,” Greg says.

“Okay.” Jim turns to me. “You're going to be in front, right?”

“Of course. I should get inside too.”

“Nah, we've still got time.” He kisses me quickly. “See you on the other side.” He starts walking, squeezing Greg's shoulder as a goodbye.

When he disappears, Greg just stares at me with that look of almost-hate and almost-something else. I don't know what to do. Finally I just say, “Have a good show, okay?”

“Maggie...” He looks up at the overhanging awning on the patio. “I'm sorry.”

I go inside and sit down.

Jim goes over well. The thing that first attracted me to him was his onstage persona, a bemused, cheerful sprawl across the stage. “Americans really don't care about the rest of the world, and that seems to work. Even Hawaii, y'all really don't give a shit about Hawaii, do you?”

When he introduces Greg, he says, “The headliner tonight used to hang out with me when I lived in Texas, and even then I knew he was going to be successful, because every Texan who came to see his act said he was the worst comic in the history of the world. So would you welcome...”

Greg stalks the stage when he gets on, holding the mike tightly. He starts talking about the election. “The thing my friends keep telling me, the reason I should be doing the Macarena of joy right now, is because we managed to elect someone, and here comes the irony train, ding ding, we managed to elect someone with moral values. Moral values, ladies and gentlemen. Try to wrap your tiny minds around that. Pourquoi does this man have moral values? Because, according to my friends, he never had an affair, and good ol' Bill did. And they are clearly right that he has moral values. I mean, rigging an election really isn't a sign of corruption, is it? It's just a funny, endearing little quirk.” The audience laughs. He takes a drink of water. I think he glances at me.

He continues, “And, even if rigging an election isn't horrendously awful, who are they to say he never had an affair? Something tells me that he did, and he'll do it again. And I cannot wait to see what genetic throwback he winds up with. And then we can have another voyeuristic 'investigation' so everyone in America can jack off to someone else's indiscretions. It's better than porn! It's government policy!” Someone in the audience goes, “Aww...” and he spins around and says, in perfect mimicry, “Awwww!” He walks to the other side of the stage, away from my seat. “'But Greg, you can't say that because he really does seem so moral and righteous and folksy and he would never...' Fuck you, you're wrong. Of course he'll have an affair, because he has no morals. And, my darlings, I'm going to tell you now and I'm only going to tell you once, so pay attention, having an affair has nothing to do with morals. Having an affair has to do with being a fuckin' selfish bastard and just wanting to get it. 'Hell, why can't I have that?' It has nothing to do with whatever that little stunted voice that you call a conscience says. You can feel as guilty as you like, but in the end, you're just fucking someone you're not supposed to be.” And then he starts talking about something else.

Afterwards I go to find Jimmy and see Greg throwing on his coat and walking outside, his head down. I don't try to catch his eye. Jimmy is standing by Island's bar, talking to the club owner, a small round man named Ash.

I tap Jim's shoulder. He spins around and puts his hands on my waist.

“Did you like it?”

“I always like it.” Experience has taught me not to say anything remotely critical just after a gig. I once said, “Well, I thought the Australia bit was kind of, you know...” and Jimmy went into a funk that lasted a week.

“The new stuff needs work...it gets sloppy in the middle.”

“No, it's funny.”

“What did you like most?”

“Um...The bit about the sharks and the bears.”

Ash says, “Okay, you guys...I'm going into diabetic shock.”

Jim laughs and says, “Okay. Where's Greg? I'd like to pay my respects before we go.”

Ash says, “He ran outside a minute ago. Didn't even stop to grab a beer.”

Jim looks at me. “I should go say goodbye to him. Then we'll be all set, unless you want to stay.”

“No, I'll follow you out in a second.”

Jim leaves. Ash looks at me.

“What?” I say, twisting my shirt around my thumb.

“I guess it's rare to find people happy together,” Ash says. “Wouldn't you agree?”

I stare at him. He says flatly, “Take care, Maggie,” and disappears.

I walk outside. Greg and Jim are sitting on a stone bench by a row of potted geraniums, brilliant red. They're too far away for me to hear them clearly. Greg looks small and fragile next to Jim's strong broad back.

Greg shakes his head. I see him slowly raise a cigarette to his mouth. Jim leans in and says something, his hand resting on Greg's shoulder. Greg shakes his head again. Jim gets up, rubbing Greg's arm.

“Okay, buddy,” he says gently, and goes to meet me. His mouth is set in a thin line. He doesn't say anything until we get to the car. I say, “What happened?”

“He was crying,” Jim says.

“What?”

“I came outside...and he was crying.”

“Jesus. Why?”

Jim sighs. “He said his act sucked. I couldn't talk him out of it.”

“What went wrong?”

“He just said he was tired and he wasn't feeling well. He didn't really want to talk about it.”

“Poor Greg.”

“Something else's going on with him. I've done shows with him where he was sick, and this...this is different.”

“Maybe it's relationship problems.”

“I don't know. Greg's never been that good at relationships.” He looks out the window. “He was married before, you know.”

“Before Rachel?”

He nods. “From what I can gather, they were both about twenty-one, twenty-two. It lasted like two years.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. The divorce sort of gutted him. He doesn't talk about it much.”

“How'd you find out?”

“We went out drinking one night in Austin. I stayed sober, he didn't, and he let a few things slip. And then he never mentioned it again. With Rachel...that's like the first stable relationship I've seen him in. I guess some people...they settle for things.” He tugs at the hair at his temples absent-mindedly.

“You're not going to worry too much?” I say. “I'm sure he'll be okay, he's a trouper.”

“No, I'm not.” He turns and stares out the window. “I'm not.”

*****

I dream I am walking in a supermarket, looking for oils. The floor is covered with some deep, tangled carpet. Every step I take, the threads grow sharper, until I can swear they're cutting into my skin, but when I look down, I don't see blood. I say, but I think it's only in my head, “I tore that out long ago.”

I jerk awake. Jim is sitting next to me with his elbows resting on his knees, looking down at me. I shudder.

“Are you okay?” He touches my shoulder. “What's the matter?”

“I'm okay,” I mumble. “Were you asleep? I'm sorry.”

“I was awake.” He tries to put his arms around me; I shift my weight, moving to the edge of the bed. “Maggie, tell me. I won't be upset. I swear.”

“I can't...I don't remember.” I shut my eyes.

*****

Rachel calls me, saying, “I need your advice.”

“I don't know, Rachel. Lately I don't know very much.”

“Please?”

“Okay, but I have to go in like half an hour.”

“I'm not quite sure how to say this.”

“Try.”

“What do you do when Jim gets...weird?”

“Weird?”

“Greg's been lying on the couch watching ESPN since he got home last night.”

“Greg _always_ watches ESPN.”

“I know, but he normally yells at the television a lot more.”

I laugh. She joins in, reluctantly. “It sounds stupid. Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing.”

“He might just need some time to lick his wounds. Jim said he was upset about the way the show went last night.”

“Yeah, I guess. It's just...” She sighs. “Maggie, he won't talk, won't eat, won't move. He just lies there staring at that stupid television.”

“Does he know you're calling me?”

“No, I'm sitting outside. Why?”

“Just wondered. I'm sure he's going to be okay.”

“I don't know. Maggie...” Her voice sounds shaky. “Maggie, he's like my whole life.”

Fucking Christ. “Rach, it'll be okay. It really will. Just let him have some space for a day or so and it'll be fine.”

“All right. You're sure?”

“Yeah. Bye.” She hangs up. I sit down. For the first time in months I actually feel sorry for her.

*****

When my cell phone rings, I wait three minutes before picking it up. Greg's voice, saying, “Is Jim there?”

“No, he's out. What's going on?”

“I told her.”

“Oh, Jesus.” I sit down. “Jesus Christ, Greg.”

“She doesn't know it was you.” There is a sound of a cigarette being lit. “Can I come over there for a minute?”

“No, sit tight, I'll come. Where are you?”

“Home.”

“I'll be over in a few minutes.”

When he opens the door, his face is still, like it's been painted. He smiles wanly at me.

“Is she here?”

He shakes his head. “She went to a hotel a couple of hours ago.”

“Do you think she'll be back?”

He sighs. “Not really. The deed to the house is in my name. She might come back to get the rest of her stuff, but...Would you like to come in? Do you want a drink or anything?”

“Greg.”

“I didn't give her your name,” he says, walking into the living room. Rachel's family pictures have been taken down from the walls; the room seems bigger without them, as though it had widened when she left.

“Why didn't you?”

He stands in the center of the room. “Because I wasn't about to do something like that.” For a second he looks as if he's going to sit down, but then he just moves to the far corner of the room, stands for a second, looking at something on the wall, walks back to the center.

I sit down. “Why'd you tell her? Why now?”

He lights a cigarette. “I just figured it sort of wasn't worth it.” He moves to the other corner, grabbing an ashtray.

“She's gonna call me, you know she will.”

He puts the ashtray down and rubs his forehead. “What'll you say?”

“I don't know.” I look at his coffee table. “I suppose I'll tell her.”

He walks to the other end of the room again, fingers a lamp, starts pacing again. “You don't have to.”

“I do. Just to get rid of her, if nothing else. What did she say when you told her?”

He laughs in a short hiss between his teeth. “What do you think she fucking said?”

“All right. I'm sorry.” I settle back against the couch. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” He stubs his cigarette out and lights a new one. “ _I'm_ sorry, Maggie.”

“Greg.” I feel as if I should stand up, put my arms around him, make him stop moving for a second, but I don't. “It's not your fault.”

“I don't know.” He pauses, looks at the barely smoked cigarette and crushes it out. “Are you going back to him?”

I look at his coffee table. He says, “Okay, maybe that was a stupid question. Jesus Christ, Maggie.”

“Will you sit down for a second? You're making me nervous.”

He sits down, takes his glasses off and puts them on the table. He presses his knuckles into his eyes. “She'll probably go back to Fanrock or something. She wanted to move to San Fran, maybe she'll go there. I don't know, maybe she'll just drop off the planet or something.”

“She'll probably stay here. Her job's here.”

“Whatever she does, she's not going to talk to me about it.” He turns to me, studying me with the frank, myopic stare he gets without his glasses. “I'd like you to stay.”

“What?”

“Stay here.”

I look around at the empty living room. For a moment the thought crosses my mind; it's just when I get to the part of actually walking out on Jim that I blank out. Greg keeps staring at me. There are little lights flickering in his eyes. I have the feeling it's due more to barely contained panic than anything else. He would ask anyone to stay right now.

“I can't stay here.”

“You could.”

“I have my own place...Greg, you don't even _like_ me that much anymore.” The room doesn't look empty as much as stripped. It might as well be a warehouse. “You're just scared of being by yourself.”

His jaw tightens. He picks up his glasses and turns them over in his hands. “That's nice. I was just good enough for you to fuck.”

“Listen to me. I can't stay with you. I'm not prepared to do that.”

“It doesn't matter anyway.” He puts his glasses back on the table and stares at them. “One day, and I know you'll do it, you'll tell him what happened. And then you're going to be sitting in your fucking shitty house by yourself, and you're going to _hate_ it.”

“And then I can come back, right? Isn't that how the plan works?”

“No,” he says. His voice is suddenly soft and very tired. “You wouldn't, anyway.” He touches his mouth absently. And I realize that, even now, I still want him.

Except it's just want. I don't care for him. Not really.

“It was nice, Greg.”

“No. Fuck you, Maggie. Just...fuck you.” His voice cracks. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes with such force that his fingers stiffen and shake.

I put my arms around him, awkwardly, as though he were some unfamiliar piece of equipment. He tries to pull away but he's got no room to move. Finally he brings his arms up, shifting my weight off him. He stands up, groping for his glasses, and turns away from the couch.

“Could you get out of here, please?”

*****

In the car, I dial Rachel's cell phone number. She picks up sounding tired and numb. “Hello?”

“It's me,” I say. “I just talked to Greg.”

“Did he tell you?” Her voice turns quivery and plaintive.

“It was me.”

“What?”

“It was me, Rachel. I slept with him.” For a moment I think I might laugh, burst into crazy relieved cackling in the car. “I slept with him for _months_.”

“Maggie, what are you doing?”

“You never gave a shit about me or him, Rachel.” My voice is sweet with pity. “All you cared about was what we could give you.” And then I hang up. The phone immediately rings again but I leave it be.

*****

I sit staring at the kitchen table. There is a shadow crawling across the top of it. The skin of my hands looks gray.

I hear the front door shut. Lights being flicked on. Jim's voice: “Have you been sitting here in the dark?”

“I guess.” I look up at him.

“You look awful.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“No. Really. Are you getting sick?”

I open my mouth to say, “I'm fine,” but no words come out. I look away.

“Maggie...” He starts for me, backs away. “Maggie, I know I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but I just want to know what's going on.”

I stare at the table. “You're gonna get mad.”

I hear him let his breath out. I don't have to look up to know that his shoulders are moving back.

“Please,” he says. “Please.”

“It didn't mean anything,” I say to my hands. “It's just...you know when you get on a roller coaster, and everyone tells you not to do it. Because it's dangerous. And everything goes so fast and you think you're going to die, and then it's over. And you're alive. And you do it again. That's what it felt like.”

I spread my hands out, place them palms up on the tabletop. I look up. His head is down, like a runner concentrating before a marathon.

He takes a step forward, towards me. And I wait for it to hurt.


End file.
